


white flower oil

by ekleipsis



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, discussions of anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25726429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekleipsis/pseuds/ekleipsis
Summary: Caitlin falls sick and Chris worries.
Relationships: Chris "Chowder" Chow/Caitlin Farmer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53
Collections: Check Please Heartbreak Fest 2020





	white flower oil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveyoutoobits (lostflares)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostflares/gifts).



> the prompt was charmer or zimbits sickfic, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending
> 
> i JUMPED at the chance to write charmer, there really isn't enough charmer content out there  
> thanks for the great prompt! this was such a fun fic to write and i hope you enjoy it  
> thank you to [jude](https://raygunn01.tumblr.com) for encouraging me and being the best beta <3  
> see end notes for tw

To Chris, there’s nothing quite like post-practice baking with Bitty and the Frogs at the Haus. It’s a cosy Friday morning. A winter chill has settled outside but the kitchen is warm and bright with the smell of fresh pies and Bitty’s upbeat playlist, and even with Dex and Nursey arguing in some corner, it’s the perfect comfort. 

Or it would be, if Chris could let himself enjoy it.

College, as fun as it is, has been a constant stream of anxiety since the start. Between needing to declare his major, telling his parents that he’s dating and getting his friends to stop fighting, it’s like a never ending game of tag, his mind jumping from thought to thought faster than he can grasp them fully. Needless to say, it’s exhausting.

He tries to ground himself in the repetitive motions of peeling apples and tunes into the ongoing debate.

“I’m just saying, pineapple is the superior pizza topping, and clearly, you have no taste.”

Not that it’s interesting. Dex and Nursey have the uncanny ability to turn anything into an argument, including the correct way to write the letter a (Nursey is pro single-story and Dex is pro double-story, whatever the fuck that even means). If the topic were more entertaining, he would try to mediate to keep them from each other’s throat, or he might even join in. Right now it’s just tiring, and he can feel an oncoming headache.

“Wrong. Pineapple on pizza is disgusting, and will always be disgusting. You just can’t tell because you have no taste buds.”

“You know what? Fuck you _and_ your tastebuds.”

Chris sighs and Bitty shoots him a sympathetic look.

“C, settle this for us: pineapple on pizza, yes or no?”

It takes him a second for his mind to slow down enough to pull himself out of his thoughts. “Hm?”

“Thoughts on pineapple on pizza: gross or delicious?” Nursey says.

“Obviously gross,” Dex says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh,” Chris says, turning back to his apples, “I can’t eat pizza.”

“ _What_.”

“That’s a bold-faced fucking lie, Christopher Franklin.”

It’s technically not a lie—he really shouldn’t eat pizza—but before they can call him out further or comment on Bitty’s amused smile, Chris’ phone starts to ring, and a wave of relief washes over him. It’s Caitlin.

“Oh would you look at that!” he says innocently before picking up. “Hey Cait!”

Dex and Nursey shoot him identical wolfish grins and he takes that as his cue to leave, careful to shut the door behind him.

“Hey, Chris,” Caitlin replies quietly. Over the past month, he’s gotten used to the sound of her voice, has learned what each inflection and each greeting means, like how a _Hey, sweetie_ always means good news or how a _Hey, Chris_ is ambiguous. But this one, with the _Hey_ dragged out for a fraction of a second longer than usual and the subdued tone, has his entire body going still. He pushes down the dread into the pits of his stomach, and keeps his voice even.

“What’s up?”

“I just got out of practice,” she says. There’s a softness to her words usually reserved for midnight calls, and he tries not to read into it. “I have to cancel lunch. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh,” he says, swallowing his disappointment. He’d been looking forward to their lunch all day. “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t reply immediately, her silence unreadable. Then she sniffles almost imperceptibly. “I just—” she sniffles again. “I don’t feel too well. To be honest, my captain almost sent me home because I looked so sick.”

She has been quieter this week, but she seemed fine yesterday. He feels his eyebrows knit in true Chris fashion and tries to keep his worry out of his voice. “That sucks,” he says sympathetically. “Do you need anything? I could come over and bring you some tea.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Anyway I don’t want you getting sick,” she replies. “I’ll catch you after your game, okay? I wouldn’t want to miss that! I want to see you.”

One of the knots in his chest loosens and his face softens. “I want to see you too.” He bites his lip. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’m just a phone call away, and if I’m quick I won’t catch anything!”

She lets out a small huff, just short of a laugh, and he can practically see her ducking her head with a smile on her lips. “I will,” she says, and yeah—he can hear her smile. “I’ll see you after your game, promise.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. It would be natural to end it there, hang up and move on until they see each other again, but there’s still a weight on his chest, an itch of a feeling he can’t quite scratch that says she’s not telling him everything. He knows she won’t open up if she doesn’t want to, doesn’t know what to say to make her feel better, but knows he has to try. “Let me know if you need anything.” He hesitates. “Seriously, you don’t need to be strong for me.”

The silence that follows stretches out for an eternity, filled with nothing but anxiety ringing in his own head, but eventually she whispers, “I will.” Before he can add anything, she hangs up, and he’s left blankly staring at his phone, wondering if he’s on edge for no reason, or if, somewhere along the line, something went wrong and the unease he’s feeling is warranted. He can’t figure it out.

He takes a moment to collect himself before walking back into the kitchen, schooling his face into a cheerful expression. Bitty sees right through him. “What’s wrong?”

“Caitlin canceled,” he starts. “She’s sick, but I’ll see her after the game.”

Nursey hums sympathetically. “What’s she got?”

“She didn’t say. She seemed off, but we’ll see how she’s doing after the match,” he replies with a shrug. He forces himself to smile. “Anyway, looks like I’m all yours until then.”

Dex and Nursey glance at each other, before turning back to Chris with blank faces. Ignoring them, Chris sits down and resumes peeling.

“How are you doing?” Dex asks carefully.

“Me? I’m fine,” he says, aiming for casual, but Dex’s right eyebrow twitches. Nursey’s face remains impassively blank.

“You sure?” Bitty asks, concern written all over his face. At least someone’s not trying to hide it.

“I’m fine,” Chris repeats. “I promise.”

It’s another bold-faced lie and they all know it, but he holds their gazes, staring them down as the silence stretches into discomfort. Bitty looks away first and claps his hand. “I guess you’re staying for lunch, then!”

Chris forces another smile. “Yup! Looks like it.”

He goes back to his apples, Bitty back to his pie, and Dex and Nursey back to their bickering, but they drop their voices to a whisper and Bitty takes to singing under his breath. Chris could call them out on it, but instead he lets himself feel grateful for the peace and quiet.

❀ ❀ ❀

Getting out of bed Friday morning is an ordeal.

Caitlin wakes up with a blocked nose and a dull ache between her eyes, and curses Massachusetts’ impossible cold, wishing she were home in California. Too comfortable to leave her cocoon of warmth, she’s torn between skipping practice and going back to sleep or being the serious student athlete she is and dragging herself out of bed.

She settles for a third option, which is fumbling for her phone and checking her messages.

Like most mornings, Chris has sent her some memes, and she’s got a few Snapchat notifications. Unlike most mornings, her mom has texted her.

_Mom <3: hey sweetheart havent heard from u in a while. is everything ok? call me when u can. luv u lots cxxx _

She lets her head fall back on her pillow with a groan. She loves her mom, she really does, and it’s not that she’s ignoring her on purpose, but the thought alone of calling her is enough to make her eyes well up and Caitlin hasn’t let herself cry all week. This morning’s no different. 

Or at least, that’s what she tells herself to save face.

The truth is Caitlin’s homesick. And it’s the one thing about college that took her by surprise. Not that she didn’t expect it, but it hit her like a high speed train she couldn’t see until it was right in front of her: painfully and all at once. In hindsight, there were many signs, like the way she was always eager to call her mom to tell her about her day, or the way she would tear up before hanging up.

It didn’t register as homesickness until she was saying goodbye at the end of winter break.

She was at the airport trying to play it cool. She complained about her mom’s bone crushing hug, pretended to be embarrassed when her dad kissed her forehead. They gushed about all the great things waiting for her at Samwell and she joked that Samwell was so great because her brother wasn’t there. (He rolled his eyes, but hugged her anyway.)

The next thing she knew, she was a snotty crying mess, her sleeve wet from wiping her eyes, now red and puffy. And just when she finally managed to tone the sobbing down to a hiccupy sniffling, her mom texted her.

_Mom <3: uve become so grown up now and im so proud of u. have a safe tripxxx _

It set off another round of tears, louder and messier, that earned her a few concerned looks from some of the other passengers.

So yeah, maybe it _looks_ like she’s avoiding her mom, but really, she’s avoiding another breakdown and crying like a little baby. 

She texts back a quick _ive got practice, talk later? love you too xxx_ and puts her phone on silent.

 _I guess that’s decided, then_ , she thinks to herself before climbing out of bed.

“You look like shit,” March says the second Caitlin walks onto the court.

She _feels_ like shit but she’d be loath to admit it. “Good morning, Captain,” she replies.

March ignores her. “Are you sick?” She’s wearing her No Nonsense Captain Face that struck fear into Caitlin’s heart the first time they met but that she now recognizes as thinly-veiled concern. 

“No, I’m fine,” Caitlin says, not wanting her to worry. As if on cue, a cough racks her body, and she suppresses the urge to roll her eyes as March frowns. “Okay, maybe I’m a bit sick, but I’m well enough to play.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She doesn’t tell March how the idea of staying in her room—alone and with nothing to do but let guilt eat away at her for ignoring her mom—fills her with more dread than leaving the comfort of her bed to come to practice with an aching body. That’s a fun conversation they can have later. 

Not that she needs to tell her. March sends her a look filled with such scrutiny and doubt that Caitlin almost flinches. Almost.

“Fine, you can play,” March relents, “but I’m gonna keep my eye on you. If I so much as think you’re coughing too much or that you look like you’re about to pass out, I’m sending you straight home, understood?” She punctuates her last sentence with a pointed look that roots Caitlin to the spot.

“Yes, Captain.”

“And take an Advil,” March adds. “There’s some in the first kit if you need it.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Satisfied, March nods and leaves her to help set up the nets. Once she’s out of earshot, Caitlin lets out a sigh of relief. March, when she’s off the court, is the epitome of cheerfulness and sweetness, but when it comes to volleyball, she’s intense in a slightly terrifying way. Caitlin respects the hell out of her, but it comes with a healthy dose of fear.

In the end, the Advil is useless, because going to practice sick is a mistake, which Caitlin learns the hard way.

The Advil eases her headache just enough for some of the tension to bleed out of her, but ten minutes in, the pounding in her head comes back in full swing. There’s the usual drills that have her sweating buckets as always, but between the bright overhead lights and the mounting cacophony of squeaky shoes and screeching whistles, she’s slower than usual to keep up, her movements as sluggish as her mind. 

The second time she winces at the whistle, March eyes her suspiciously. Caitlin sends her a thumbs-up and an awkward half-smile, which she seems to accept.

When practice finally ends, Caitlin all but collapses onto the bench, exhausted. She takes a few sips of her water, lets her eyes flutter shut and focuses on catching her breath, all the while regretting all of her life choices.

March sits down beside her cautiously, and for a moment they cool down in silence.

“Is there a reason you decided to come to practice,” she starts carefully, “despite looking like death?”

“That obvious, huh?” Caitlin asks quietly, already anticipating the answer. _You came to practice pale as a ghost and with a raging headache, of course people were going to notice_.

March quirks her lips. “Yeah, kiddo, that’s what captains are for.” 

Caitlin says nothing at first, then offers a shrug. “It’s complicated,” she says eventually. She could search for the exact words that would get her captain off her back, but she’s too tired to think. “There’s just a lot going on right now.”

“You know, if you ever need someone to talk to, you’ve got me, and if not me, then the rest of the team. Or what about that guy you’re seeing, Chris, right? He seems nice,” March offers.

Caitlin smiles to herself the way she always does when Chris is mentioned. “Yeah. He’s great,” she says. Then she sighs. It’s not that she doesn’t have people to talk to, it’s that she doesn’t need to talk because there’s nothing to talk about. At least, that’s what she tells herself, but she knows it’s not an answer March will accept. “Thanks for the offer. I promise I’ll think about it,” she says instead.

“Good.” March nods. “Can you promise me something else?”

Caitlin tilts her head in confusion. “...Sure?”

“Don’t come into practice tomorrow,” March says, looking at her with more gentleness and care than ever before, and Caitlin tries to hide her surprise. “Get some rest and only come back when you’re feeling well.”

Caitlin sighs, pausing to think. She’s feeling a lot of things right now, and nothing she can explain to her captain. She hates skipping classes of any kind, including practice, and again, the last thing she wants is to be alone in her room, but on the other hand, the mere thought of going back to her warm and cosy and comfortable bed… It floods her with relief and yeah—that’s probably a sign.

March nudges her. “Go home, Cait.”

Caitlin hesitates for a fraction of a second more before relenting. “Yeah, okay.”

The minute she gets back to her room, she collapses onto her bed, letting her body sink deep into the mattress as the tension bleeds out of her. It takes every fiber in her body not to fall asleep, because although she wants to lie there and sleep until the end of time, she needs to call Chris.

She reaches for her phone and stares at it, the nausea in her stomach suddenly making itself known. “Come on, it’s just Chris,” she says to herself. “It’s just Chris.” She would’ve thought there was no reason to be nervous, but apparently not. It must be the people-pleaser in her that hates canceling, especially last-minute, or maybe it’s because she hates disappointing Chris the most. 

Sweet, fierce, loving Chris who, two months since first meeting, has become one of the most important people in her life. 

This should be easy.

She takes a deep breath, and calls him. It rings once, twice, three times before he picks up with a cheerful, “Hey, Cait!” and immediately her fears melt away.

Canceling on him is hard, especially while keeping her voice steady, but talking to him and listening to his voice is so, _so_ easy and she smiles as he mirrors her energy, speaking as softly as her and with almost enough enthusiasm to mask his concern. Almost. His concern is practically tangible, even over the phone.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he says as they say goodbye, because Christopher Franklin Chow has a heart of gold and Caitlin’s lucky to have him in her life. Her smile wobbles. As if he can read her mind, he adds, “Seriously, you don’t need to be strong for me.”

It’s harder then to keep the emotion out of her voice and it takes her a moment to blink away her tears and swallow the catch in her throat. “I will,” she whispers, hanging up before she can start crying.

Like floodgates opening, the morning’s fatigue—mental and physical—comes crashing into her and she falls back against her pillows, trying hard not to cry. She takes a ragged breath, then another and another, and eventually her breathing steadies, the knot in her chest loosens and her headache starts to fade.

Without the usual hustle and bustle of hurried students, the campus is relatively quiet, and all she can hear through her closed window is the occasional muffled laughter and chatter of passers-by. It washes over her in a wave of white noise, and she lets it lull her to sleep.

❀ ❀ ❀

 _Me: lmk where in the stands you’re sitting, i’ll be sure to wave at you :)_ _  
_ _Delivered_

Chris is thankful that his friends know how to keep him grounded. In the locker room, Dex had noticed him staring at his phone like he was burning holes, and had knocked him out of his daze. “You know, staring at your phone won’t make her text you back,” he’d said. “If you’re worried, you can always call her after the game. Procrastinate your worry.”

It’s advice Chris is desperately trying to cling to, but even as he’s getting into place on the ice, he can’t quite shake the image of his message left unread or the tightness in his chest.

Worrying isn’t new to Chris. He’s been dealing with anxiety since he was fourteen, been going to therapy for just as long and by now has a pretty decent toolkit of ways to calm down from a panic attack, but it’s not like him to obsess over a text and its timestamp. It’s not like him to think _Has she read it? When will she reply?_ And it’s also not like Caitlin to be so _fucking_ unresponsive. 

Sure, they’re both busy: between practice and roadies, Chris is almost never on campus, and volleyball is just as demanding. But after two months of texting, a good three weeks of dating and Skyping, this is the first time she’s taken so long to reply. And knowing she’s sick? Yeah. He’s worried out of his mind, and it’s slowly starting to gnaw at his insides. 

He scans the crowd for Caitlin, his eyes sweeping over each individual bench in the stands, picking apart every single flash of familiar brown hair and pale skin. Every time he thinks he sees her, he’s filled with the tiniest spark of hope, but it’s not Caitlin. It’s never Caitlin.

A familiar panic grips his throat. _Fuck,_ he thinks, _where the hell is she?_

“Chowder!” Nursey calls out, raising an eyebrow at him. _You okay?_ it says.

Chris’ attention snaps back to the ice and the looming match and a new wave of nerves hits him, but it’s nerves he’s long since learned how to handle. Hockey he can handle. He shakes his head and waves Nursey off. _I’m fine_.

Nursey frowns but he doesn’t get the chance to question him further. They’ve got a game to play.

Chris focuses on counting his breathing to steel himself—five in, seven out, in and out again—and slips into goalie mode, pushing aside any stray thought of Caitlin and whether she’s okay. The puck drops, and then they’re off.

They tie 2-2. It’s not ideal, but they fought hard and ultimately it was a good match. Jack stares him down, intense and stoic in true Jack fashion, before Chris can even think of feeling guilty at having missed those two shots. He’s so caught up in checking his phone that the thought doesn’t even cross his mind.

“Has she texted you yet?” Dex asks as he starts to slide off his gear.

Chris shakes his head. His eyes glued to the screen, he stares at the “Delivered” and feels panic rising. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck_. 

“Try calling her.”

Right. It’s a good thing he’s got friends to help him think straight or he really would burn holes into his phone. He takes a deep breath to steady himself then calls her.

It rings. He brings a hand up to chew his nails. Nursey bats it away.

It keeps ringing. He runs a hand through his hair. Bitty shoots him a worried look.

It goes to voicemail. He sighs in frustration and lets his head fall back, his mind already racing with worst-case scenarios. “She’s not picking up,” he says to his friends. They’re all looking at him with varying degrees of concern and he has to look away just to keep himself from panicking any more.

“You okay, C?” Nursey asks, his expression serious but soft.

Chris’ grip on his phone tightens as his body starts to shake and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I’m really worried.”

“Didn’t you say she was sick?” Dex says.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe she’s sleeping.”

Right. Maybe she’s sleeping, which would be a totally rational and plausible reason for not answering her phone, nothing dramatic like the scenes playing in his head. He takes another deep breath. “I’m gonna go check up on her,” he manages to get out, despite the thoughts racing in his head. _Okay, focus_ , he thinks to himself as he looks around to gather his things—his phone, his water bottle, his clothes. Nursey puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, maybe change out of your gear first,” he says gently.

“And shower,” Bitty adds.

“Right,” Chris says. _So: shower—no, change out of gear first, then shower, then get dressed, then—then—then._ He sits down with a thud, his head dizzy, his heartbeat racing a mile a minute and the blood pounding in his ears. 

_Shit, I’m panicking, I’m—panicking_. 

_Oh_. _I might be having a panic attack_.

The realization hits him so suddenly that it startles him into a brief moment of clarity but it’s enough to know that he needs to ground himself, and that’s something he knows how to do.

He closes his eyes, counts his breathing—five in, seven out—opens his eyes. He starts naming things he can see: his bag, his phone, the S in the middle of the locker room, his friends watching him carefully, waiting for him. His heartbeat slows down. He can hear: the rest of the team chattering away, the showers running, Ransom and Holster’s playlist in the background. His breathing steadies. He can feel his gear and everywhere it weighs down on him, he can feel his phone warm in his hand, he can feel the sweat sticky on his brow. The pressure on his chest eases off.

His tongue is still heavy in his mouth, but after a moment he manages to say, “Okay, I’m gonna shower, get changed, then check on Cait.” He looks up to his friends to find them watching him expectantly, and they almost seem as tense as he is. “I should—I should bring something, right? Like Tylenol and some cough medicine and tea—yes, tea.” 

“I’ve got a flask you could borrow,” Bitty offers.

“If you’re stopping at the Haus, you could bring some mini pies, too,” Dex adds.

Chris nods, relief and warmth blooming in his chest as his friends smile at him softly. “Yes, perfect.” He exhales deeply, closing his eyes, the exhaustion of fighting off a panic attack starting to catch up. 

Nursey nudges his shoulder. “Farmer’s lucky to have you, C.”

Chris smiles and for the first time since that morning, it feels genuine. “Thanks, Nursey.”

His friends go back to changing out of their own gear, and he’s left alone to his thoughts and things. It takes him another moment to feel calm enough to move, but he won’t have a panic attack today. No, instead he’ll check up on his girlfriend, make sure she’s okay, and then they’ll both be okay. He repeats to himself over and over, hoping that if he says it enough, it’ll come true.

❀ ❀ ❀

Caitlin wakes to a series of dull thuds in her head, so soft that they barely register in her mind. It rouses her enough that she sighs and buries herself further in her blankets, then her breathing evens out and she drifts back to sleep.

 _Thud thud thud_. There it is again. What the fuck _is_ that? She’s just trying to sleep, for fuck’s sake. Her eyes flutter open as she starts to process it, grumbling, and when silence greets her, she shuts her eyes and pulls the covers higher.

“Caitlin?” a voice calls out. And is that—no. Chris? What’s he doing here?

She jolts awake. Shit, the match. She fumbles for her phone and—yeah, she missed it.

They’ve been talking about this match since before they started dating. She had planned to bring a “Marry Me, Christopher Chow'' (at Shitty’s suggestion), Chris had a small speech prepared to formally introduce her to the team, they were going to get dinner, it was going to be a whole thing. But instead, she slept through it all.

And now, Chris is here, at her door, probably to let her know just how badly she’s fucked up.

She scrambles out of bed and towards the door fueled by panic and guilt, and swings it open just as Chris lifts his hand to knock again. “Chris, shit, I am _so_ sorry.” The words spill out of her mouth before she’s even confirmed it’s him.

“Caitlin,” he breathes in relief, looking every bit as restless and nervous as she feels. Instead of the usual Sharks cap, he’s slung a Samwell one backwards over his hair, still damp and falling over his eyes, and from beneath his winter coat peeks out his white post-game interview shirt. 

The visual reminder that she missed his game is like a slap in the face, and her heart clenches with guilt. “I am so, so sorry that I missed your match, I didn’t mean to sleep through it, I swear, I just—”

“Caitlin, it’s okay,” he says, shaking his head.

“But—” _you’re not mad?_

“Seriously, it’s _fine_ ,” he says and the look he sends her way is so pointed and serious that her mouth snaps shut.

“I—Okay.”

Her mind finally slows down enough to remember that she just woke up and the adrenaline starts to leave her system. He tugs at his scarf, and for a moment they stand there silently, not quite looking at each other and smiling nervously when their eyes meet. She wonders why he’s nervous and why he’s come here if not to berate her. 

“So what are—”

“I brought—”

Chris smiles again, that small uncertain smile of his, and gestures at her. “You first.”

She shifts her weight to her other foot as she debates what to say. She settles for, “I was just gonna ask what you were doing here.”

His smile tightens minutely and she tries not to let her face fall. Fuck, she shouldn’t have gone with that.

“Oh, I, uh, brought you some stuff,” he says, slipping his bag off his shoulder and pulling out a Bitty goodie bag. The sight of it has Caitlin’s chest blooming for warmth mixed with even more guilt. She doesn’t deserve him. “There are mini pies, cough medicine, some Tylenol and I made you a flask of ginger tea with lemon and honey.”

She stares at him, at a loss for words. “You brought me… all this?” _After everything?_ she wants to add. Maybe she’s being dramatic, or maybe it’s her cold and the fatigue talking but she really doesn’t deserve Christopher Chow or any of his kindness. 

The warmth in her chest clenches and tears start to prick at her eyes. She wipes them away, not ready to cry so soon after waking up, and gives him her most genuine smile.

“Thank you,” she says. Gingerly she takes the bag from him, one hand supporting it from the bottom, opening her door wider as she moves to put it down. Chris hovers by the door. He attempts a smile but it falls just as quickly as his gaze drops to the ground, and he takes his cap off to run a hand through his hair, looking away. Under normal circumstances, if she weren’t so nervous, too, she’d make a comment about how good he looks disheveled.

“Look, I came up to check on you,” he says, his hands fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and finally he looks at her. His gaze is so serious and intense that she finds herself rooted to the spot under its weight, but she can’t seem to look away either and she holds her breath, waiting for him to speak. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, and clearly you are, so I guess I’ll just… leave you.” He presses his lips together in an awkward half-smile. “So. Yeah. I’ll, uh, see you.”

He lifts his hand in goodbye and turns to leave.

She freezes. That’s it? He’s just going to leave? She’s barely thanked him or explained herself, and she owes him better than this. He _deserves_ better than this.

“Wait!” Caitlin calls out, reaching out a hand towards him. It hovers over his arm and when he turns to her, she snatches it back, suddenly unsure how to act or what to say. _Where should I even start?_ she thinks to herself. _Somewhere. Anywhere_. She takes a deep breath, mustering all her courage, and looks at him with nerves and hope in her eyes. “Stay?”

And finally, _finally_ , his face softens into a real smile. “Sure.”

There’s no other way to say it: it’s awkward. Caitlin has invited Chris into her room before, but her heart beats loudly in her chest and she’s overly conscious of each of her movements, interrupting them because she doesn’t dare touch him. 

The silence weighs heavy on her, and judging from the not-so-subtle looks he sends her way, it weighs on him, too. But it gives her a moment to collect her thoughts. Chris clearly wants to be here or he would’ve left, and he’s already dismissed her apologies, so she’s not going to try that again. Yet. But now what? _Anything to make him stay,_ she guesses.

From her perch on her bed, she watches him fiddle with her pens at her desk, wordlessly, and racks her brain for something to break the silence.

“So… you said it was apple pie?” she says eventually.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” she says and fidgets with her comforter, searching for another way to keep the conversation going. “Do you want to share?”

“Sure.”

She sighs internally, relieved to have something to do with her hands. She stands up and reaches for the bag, but with morning’s nervous energy is suddenly back in full swing and with trembling hands, the container slips out of her grasp and falls to the ground.

She drops to the floor just as Chris lunges forward to catch it. “Careful, there,” he says, and he’s not really smiling but they’re almost nose to nose and when she looks up at him, she sees a spark of mirth in his eyes. Her breath catches and she jerks back suddenly, looking away from him. 

He frowns at her. Feeling guilty, she swallows her nerves and tries to lighten the atmosphere. “We can’t all have amazing goalie-saving skills like you,” she says, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Hm, that’s true,” he hums, his lips twitching, and he sighs dramatically. “I guess I am just _that_ amazing.”

She throws a pillow at him in response, and he catches it without dropping the pies. “Ugh,” she scoffs. “Of course you’d catch it.”

He takes a bow, grinning from ear to ear, and even though her stomach is churning with anxiety, her chest feels a little lighter. Chirping is familiar territory that she can and knows how to handle and she can’t help but grin back. A tiny spark of hope ignites within her.

It’s easier then to coexist in the same space and the conversation that follows is less stilted. They settle on watching _Lilo and Stitch_ , tucked into bed with the container of pies between them, and they lapse into a comfortable silence.

She’s careful not to touch him at first, leaning into the corner and keeping her hands to herself. He shifts again until he’s comfortably propped up against her wall, and they’re pressed up against each other from shoulder to hip. She stills, her face flushed and she suddenly feels very small. He’s always been bigger and broader than her, but this feels different. Fragile. She’s not sure how to… just be. 

She screams internally. She _wishes_ she could be as casual as him, but she has no idea what she’s doing or where they stand, and she’s still racked with guilt at having missed his match. 

He doesn’t move again, just looks over at her with a small smile before turning to take out her laptop, and she understands, then, her heart skipping a beat. This isn’t Chris trying to be smooth or trying to flirt with her, or ignore the elephant in the room, no, this is Chris trying to make her comfortable because she’s sick and nervous, and he cares. 

Even though she knows they’ll have to talk at one point or another, the realization has her relaxing against him, and she lets her head fall onto his shoulder. He rests his chin on her head, reaches an arm around her and she bites back a smile. 

It’s sweet, and she’s grateful.

Tucked into his side, she feels warm inside and out, and she finds that she actually feels rested. A four-hour nap will do that to a person. They watch the film in silence, but Caitlin barely pays attention, running through the myriad ways to apologize to Chris and how to bring it up. In the end, she doesn’t need to.

She chokes on a mini pie. A wave of coughs racks her body and she jerks upright, hacking at her lungs. “I’m fine,” she says weakly when she catches Chris frowning at her.

“You don’t _seem_ fine,” he says doubtfully. 

She waves him off. “I haven’t coughed that much today.” Other than volleyball practice, she hasn’t coughed at all, and coughing because she choked on a dessert can barely be cause for concern, right? 

He looks at her pointedly. “And that means you’re fine?”

She smiles sheepishly.

He rolls his eyes, then pauses the film and turns to rifle through the goodie bag. She watches him curiously as he pulls out a flask and a mug, and pours out some tea, all the while wearing a neutral expression on his face, like it’s second nature or like there’s nothing here to overthink. It’s such a contrast to his anxious fidgeting when he first got here.

He passes her the mug and she takes it, careful not to spill any of its contents. “Be careful, it’s still hot,” he says when she brings the mug to her lips and breathes it in. Already her sinuses feel clearer. “This is fresh ginger, honey, lemon and hot water which will help with your cough and your cold. Drink this every day, morning and night, until you feel better.”

“Is that an order, doctor?” she jokes.

“Yes,” he replies, shooting her a look, but his eyes are shining. “I’ll come round and make you drink it if I have to.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, rolling her eyes. She blows on it, takes a sip and revels in the honey soothing her throat and in its wake leaving the burning of the ginger. Her eyes well up and she coughs again. “Wow, that’s strong.”

“You’re just white,” he grins.

“Hey!” she protests, but the more she drinks the more she gets used to the ginger and the burn, and she starts to feel it soothe her throat and her headache. 

Chris laughs. “I’m serious, I drank gallons of that stuff as a kid. My grandma made me drink it whenever I was sick, she swears by it. Honestly, it’s never failed me.” At the mention of his grandmother, his eyes go misty and his smile wistful and she feels a pang in her heart. Missing family is a feeling with which she’s all too familiar. 

And it’s then that she sees it: her window of opportunity.

She lowers the mug and her head, and steels herself, closing her eyes. “I always watch _Lilo and Stitch_ when I’m sick,” she starts, her voice soft.

He replies with a hum and she takes that as a sign to continue. “I don’t get sick often, but when I do I don’t sleep that much. And I definitely don’t sleep through my boyfriend’s hockey matches. I guess—I don’t know, I guess I’m sicker than I thought when I called you this morning. Or maybe just tired. Not that it matters,” she hurries to add. 

_Okay, get to the point_ , she thinks. “I’m really sorry I missed your match,” she says. “Even if it was unintentional, I hurt you and I let you down, and I’m really, _really_ sorry.”

She looks over at him. He’s watching her with that intense gaze of his, but his expression is a carefully crafted face of impossible neutrality. _This is going terribly,_ she thinks and sighs to herself in frustration, racking her brain for the right words. She breathes in, mustering all her courage. “So... thank you for looking after me,” she says as sincerely as she can, hoping that if she says it enough, maybe he’ll understand just how much it means to her. And from the small smile he gives her, he doesn’t seem far off. _Okay, that’s better_.

“It’s just—it’s really nice to feel cared for,” she continues, and her eyes well up again, but this time with emotion. She blinks them away and swallows the catch in her throat. “I’m not used to being cared for, especially since coming to college and I—I don’t know how to ask for it. So… thank you. For coming to check up on me, and keep me company and look after me. It’s really sweet of you and I appreciate it so much.” She bites her lip. “Are you… are you mad?”

At first, he says nothing, the silence filled only with the sounds of the wind whistling outside and the muffled chatter of passersby. Then he shifts, pulling away from her slightly and letting his head fall back against the wall. “No, Caitlin, I’m not mad,” he says quietly.

Relief floods her. “Really?”

He turns to her, his expression softening into a reassuring smile. “I promise. I’m not mad, but I’m—I was stressed.”

Okay, that she can work with. “How come?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Because I was super worried about you. I mean, you cancel on me last minute because you’re sick, and then you don’t reply to any of my texts because you were sleeping and don’t get me wrong, it’s not your fault. You’re _sick_. But it was just so unlike you and I couldn’t get through and it just—” He sighs. “I was worried, but I promise it’s not your fault and I’m not mad.” He smiles and reaches for her hand, holding it up to his chest and giving it a gentle squeeze like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it!” she insists.

“Caitlin, it’s not like you knew you were going to sleep through an entire hockey match. Anxiety just fucking sucks. Again, it’s _not your fault_.”

“I know, but still, I made you worry and I hate that I’m the one who made you stress. I know how anxious you get!” She huffs, searching for the right words. “Okay, how about this: next time I’m sick and tired, I’ll text you _before_ I take a nap. That way, if I don’t reply, you’ll know why.”

“That sounds good,” he says, smiling. “No more apologies?”

She hesitates. “Okay.”

“Good.” He smiles at her again, then brings her hand up to his lips and presses a delicate kiss to her knuckles and she wonders if he can hear her heartbeat thundering in her chest. “Come on, let’s finish the film.”

Later that night, after they’ve finished _Lilo and Stitch_ and the ginger tea, when the blinds have been closed shut and the lights switched off, they curl into bed with the covers pulled up to their chins. It’s hard fitting two people in a single, but their legs are tangled, arms slung over each other, their faces nose to nose and whenever he laughs or sighs at some awful joke, she feels his breath warm on her face. She can tell he loves it as much as she does.

(“You’ll definitely get sick like this.”

“Worth it.”)

It’s when their voices drop to a whisper, too overcome with fatigue for anything above it, that Chris hesitates, and for a moment Caitlin sees another flash of his earlier anxiety. “How are you feeling?” he asks carefully.

She shrugs. “Better, but I feel a bit sore.”

He nods, clears his throat, then just as carefully, says, “Actually I have something else that could help with that.”

“Yeah?” 

Wordlessly, he turns back to his bag and pulls out a small glass bottle with a clear liquid. “This is white flower oil,” he explains, sitting up.

She takes the bottle from him, examining it carefully. The writing is all in Chinese, with a simple drawing of a white flower, and when she opens it, the smell of menthol wafts up to her nose. She looks up to see him watching her nervously and wringing his hands. Huh, curious. “What is it?”

“It’s another home remedy my grandmother swears by. For aches and all,” he says. “You rub it into your skin.” He pauses, and she tilts her head in question when he closes his eyes, almost like he’s steeling himself. “If you want, I could apply it for you?”

She stares at him. He seems nervous, not quite looking her in the eye, but this is about… touching her? There’s a vulnerability in his eyes and she thinks, no, this is about something different, but she can’t figure out what.

Not trusting her voice, she nods.

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He sits up straighter, determined and when he gestures, she holds out her arm and he reaches for it, carefully and wordlessly.

She’s not sure what she’s expecting, because he’s touched her in different ways before: ranging from light and flirty, to soft and gentle. But this takes her completely by surprise and she’s left speechless.

There’s nothing soft, or slow, or gentle about it. Instead, his touch is firm, his grip strong, and he moves his hands swiftly up and down her arm, moving from one to the next, then to her chest, to her forehead. And yet—there’s nothing rough about it, either. It’s not the way you would rub sunscreen onto a giggly child, or the way you would warm yourself when you’re underdressed and cold. This is entirely new. It’s—

It’s grounding. More than anything, with each strong sweep of his hand, limb by limb, she feels herself grow more aware of her body and she feels settled.

By the time he’s done, she realizes she’s crying.

“Caitlin?” he asks tentatively, when she says nothing.

“I—” She looks at him a little helplessly, searching for the right words, but when none come, she sniffs and has to look away.

“Caitlin,” he says soothingly, smiling. “Hey. What’s wrong?” He reaches out a hand to her face, stopping just an inch away, and she tilts her head towards him, closing the gap. Her eyes flutter shut and he brushes away the tears rolling down her cheeks with his thumb. “Why are you crying?”

She takes in a ragged breath, tries to calm herself down, but as Chris continues to wipe her tears, she continues to cry. “I just—” she says hoarsely, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m so homesick.”

“Oh, Cait,” he says, his hand dropping away and opening his arms for a hug. She leans forward, melting into his embrace, and he tucks her head under his chin, one hand coming up to her hair, the other soothingly rubbing her back. The longer he holds her, the longer the feeling of his arms around her warms her, the harder it is to hold it in, and she stops trying altogether.

“I miss my family so much, and I love college, but sometimes I get so lonely and I don’t know how to deal with it,” she says, this time she speaks more easily, not caring if her voice sounds scratchy or high.

“Cait, when was the last time you called your mom?” he asks gently.

She sniffles, pausing to think, and stills when she draws a blank. “...I haven’t spoken to her since I left California.”

He hums, stroking her hair. “You know, maybe you got sick because you’ve been bottling up so much.”

“What do you mean?” she says, pulling away to look at him.

“Caitlin,” he says, his face serious. “You’re the only other person I know who calls their mom every day, and the one week you _don’t_ call her, you get sick and sleep through an entire hockey match.”

She says nothing.

“And now,” he says softly, brushing the hair out of her face, “I’m here, taking care of you, and you burst into tears. I think you’ve been bottling things up.”

He’s right, she realizes, and her mind starts to race with all the tiny little signs that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t okay. It takes her a moment to pull herself out of her thoughts, but when she turns back to Chris, he’s looking at her with nothing but love. “You’re right,” she says, “I have been repressing things. I just—” She sniffles, lowering her head.

He shakes his head, opening his arms for another hug, and she goes willingly, hiding her face in his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. “You don’t have to explain yourself. You know—” he pauses, his eyes misty and a smile on his face like he’s remembering something good and warm. “I couldn’t wait to be independent and move to the other side of the country, but now that I’m here, I miss my family so much.” He huffs out a laugh. “I love Samwell and being on my own, but most days, I have no idea what I’m doing or who I am.

“It’s like—There are so many versions of me and I don’t know how to… juggle between them. Like there’s Chowder, this rowdy hockey player whose team is basically a frat, and then there’s Chris who promises his parents he won’t drink or date before college and tries to match their expectations and I don’t know how to reconcile the two. To be honest, I haven’t told them I’m dating you yet,” he admits with a sigh. 

“College is hard,” she mumbles into his chest, and his laugh echoes throughout his entire body.

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’m glad you can be open with me,” she says, pulling away to look at him.

“I know.” He smiles. “You know it goes both ways, right? Miss I Got Sick From Repressing My Emotions?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure there are other factors.”

He looks at her.

“Okay, fine, I’ll be more open about my needs.” She smiles and falls back into his arms, melting into his embrace as he brings his arms around her, and breathing in his scent, a mix of his soap and cinnamon. They exhale together. “I promise.”

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into her hair. “We’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> tw: discussions and descriptions of anxiety.  
> chris calms himself down from an anxiety attack starting from _"Right," Chris says._ to _His tongue is still heavy in his mouth_
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @stanthefrogs


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